Hunting the Dread Wolf
by Ear-Tweak-Sama
Summary: Good intentions resulted in a bleak and hollow resolution. Peace was won, but was vowed to be short lived. Two years after the encounter with the Dread Wolf and the disbandment of the Inquisition, Solas reveals himself once more, but this time he will stop at nothing to restore the world of Elvhenan even if it means cleansing Thedas in the fire of raw chaos. Solas/Lavellan/Cullen
1. Anwen & Cullen

Author's Note: This is set after the newest DLC for Dragon Age: Inquisition – Trespasser. So clearly there will be spoilers from that story line, but other than that the story is completely AU and based around my assumptions of how the aftermath would play out. Throughout the story each single chapter will consist of two character chapters that way everyone will be able to understand situations through various characters perspectives at the same time instead of just one side. This first chapter will act slightly as an introduction of sorts – setting the scene more than anything since most of it is AU; however much of the DLC Trespasser will be mentioned as stated before.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bioware. I own nothing, except the games themselves.

 **Anwen: ex- Inquisitor –**

The tear that once existed within the sky, that throbbed and pulsed with the magic of the fade, now streaked the winter night sky like blazing tail of green flames. Five years had passed since the defeat of Corypheus and the sealing of the Breach, the marks, however, of the events still festered throughout the world echoing the pain of the lives that were lost during the months of bloodshed. All of Thedas had once called her Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and a hero; nevertheless, now she was only Anwen of clan Lavellan and it felt as if she no longer knew who the person was who possessed the name. She looked down at her missing arm, the remnants of magic still tingling within the stub where the limb had once been. She knew the sensation well for she'd once loved the man who removed it. She ran her fingers along the lumpy flesh and felt the electrifying shock of Sola's magic.

His signature ran deep within her, both in her life's blood and her mana. Their encounter those two years ago had not been a twist of fate, nor the plan of the Maker, but instead the clever scheming of Solas, attempting to draw her to him one last time. She had been a pawn in the inner workings of his greater machinations, she realized that now, but she had allowed her love for him to blind her of the truth and convince her that redemption was possible. How foolish she had been to believe she could persuade him otherwise. The truth, the harsh, raw, and achingly painful truth had somehow been staring her in the face since the very beginning and she had been too dim to see it. Now, everything that she and he had forged, and reluctantly built from the ground up due to her unfortunate bad luck and timing, and it all stemmed from him. The fault of everything that had happened lay at his feet even, streaked unmistakable red. Now Anwen had to pay for her folly, the debt had cost her not just her arm, or even her heart, but the reputation of the Inquisition as well as the loyalty of countless friends and followers.

She could recall the meeting of the Exalted Council as if it was yesterday. The angry faces, the accusations, and the disappointment radiated from every Ferelden and Orlesian patron that bared witness to the assembly. Perhaps it had been intentional, the Inquisition had grown far too powerful, amassed too many favors and leverage that could be used against much of Thedas. Anwen stood in front of the window and watched as soft powdery snow blanketed the fields and the valley that lay along the land she owned. She wrapped her arm around herself, drawing a semblance of comfort from the bits of magic that danced across her skin. She bared all of herself to the world as she stood naked in the darkness, with only the white glow of the full moon to illuminate her surrounds, and wondered how things could have gone differently. Her blonde hair shimmered like molten gold in the brilliance of the moon. It spilled over her shoulders and cascaded down the length of her back, it had long since grown out from its usual choppy boyish styling, and since her adventuring days were behind her she didn't mind the change. Anwen quickly glanced over her shoulder and back at the wooden bed that resided in the far side of the bedchamber, of Ferelden origin, it was decorated elaborately with the sigil of the country –the fiercely loyal and ferocious mabari. Two bodies peacefully slept, tangled in the blankets and bedding, and neither registered her absence.

Cullen Rutherford snored softly next to his mabari. They oddly fit together, as if two lost souls, remnants of a forgotten era when warriors and gallant heroes charged across battle field planting the seeds of legends in their wake. Solas had warned her that the end was near and that he would rip the world apart by whatever means necessary to repair the damage he inflicted upon the elven people. He'd warned her because he claimed he still loved her, that she would always be his, but that he could not bring himself to lay with her under what he deemed "false" pretenses. He walked the path of the _Din'Anshiral_ , one of solitude, death and destruction, and one that he vowed he would never allow her to follow.

Broken both mentally and physically, she too vowed to stop him and prevent him from destroying the world – even at the cost of losing her own people. His words still echoed within the depths of her heart, "Because I am no monster. If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort." The words slipped from his lips so easily as if he were talking to a mere stranger rather than one of the People, or even his love. What he said next sliced through her more so than the truth of his intentions, "I hope it gives your people some final peace."

What peace was there for her? The word seemed so hollow or perhaps poisonous because of the lack of empathy he possessed or the lack of basic concern for the billions of lives that would be destroyed due to his guilty conscious. She peered down at the golden band on her right ring-finger and thought of the irony. Anwen knew that until she saved Solas from himself that there would be no true peace for her – even with her own husband. He stirred slightly on the bed, rousing from his deep sleep and dreams, and muttered something under his breath before drifting off once more. The lyrium infused nightmares no longer plagued his mind, at least he had found peace and she'd given it to him. He'd been fond of her long before Solas had demonstrated any sort of romantic interest in her, and while she had been drawn more so to Solas than Cullen because of their obvious connection, through magic, heritage, and even their shared respect of the elven lore, but duty had prevented Solas from committing himself to her heart and soul…from loving her or allowing her to follow him and help him. Anwen had earned a few years of ease and comfort, according to Solas; however, the last few had been anything but and her own guilty conscious was getting the better of her and there was no comfort in the inevitability of the destruction of the world.

"Annie?" Cullen called, his words slurred slightly from sleep. He rubbed the sleep from his face and ran a calloused hand through his tangle of golden curls before regaining consciousness and coherency completely. "What's wrong sweetheart, is it your arm? Is it bothering you again?" He was up and moving, leaving behind the warmth and comfort of the bed to join her. Cullen wrapped his arms around her and brushed his lips lightly against her check. His fingers instinctually found their way to her missing forearm and they delicately went to work massaging the lumpy and blotched skin. He stood beside her, naked, and his manhood pressed against the back of her thigh. His lion fierce auburn eyes were liquid warmth and smiled sweetly back at her as she planted a kiss of her own at the base of his throat. Her lips twitched into a smile at the gesture of intimacy. "Shall I get the salve for you? The healers have recommended that you use it twice a day because it will soothe the irritation caused by the magic." He tried again, nuzzling his head into the nook of her shoulder.

"No, Cullen, I'm fine…really." Anwen murmured softly, nibbling on his ear. She played the role of wife well. Initially she'd married Cullen under duress rather than a true desire to be legally bound by human laws and obligation; however, when she'd confessed her love to Solas and he'd rejected her, she somehow found comfort in the arms of the ex-Templar. Anwen was sweet on him, that much was certain, and while his views of mages were troubling over the years they'd discovered some sort of political equal ground to stand on.

The winter wind picked up then, rustling the bare branches of the trees lining the outer edge of their acre and stirring the powdery soft snow that once blanketed the ground undisturbed. _The calm before the storm_ , Anwen thought eerily, the silence of the season was…disconcerting, to say the least and somehow she knew that the final days were upon them.

"Hmm…do you remember the vows we exchanged two years ago?" Anwen inquired, pulling away from him. "Not the human vows, but the elven ones? Can you repeat them back to me?"

He chuckled softly and cleared his throat, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected request. While he was charming, when he wanted to be or attempted, he was a military man – a man of action – and he was no Dorian, meaning he was often easily embarrassed when not informed or in some manner enlightened prior to the fact. "Um…why, yes. I do think I can. Though I may butcher many of the words and perhaps even the accent of the language. Are you sure you want me to repeat them now?" he laughed, "Forgive me, I am still somewhat hazy with sleep."

Even with his jesting he said the words effortlessly, perhaps it was practice, or even hearing Anwen speak words of the elven tongue to his mabari, but his accent mirrored that of her own. "Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris." She waited for him to finish, smiled proudly, and then pressed her lips softly upon his own. He was careful not to touch or brush her arm as he trailed his fingers down the length of her body. He drew her closer, allowing her to feel his desire between her legs and tangled his fingers within her hair. She allowed him to continue. If nothing else she sought to please him, to play the role of wife, if for nothing else to fill to void that existed within both of them. Cullen tilted her head back, his hand still fully planted in the back of her head as he used her hair as leverage, and flicked his tongue across the base of her neck as if tasting it like a snake.

Cullen's amber eyes met Anwen's jade-green stare with unadulterated devotion and love. Her gut wrenched under his gaze and it quickly seized her heart such a force it made her tremble. She knew what he wanted, more than peace, and more than Solas's death – he wanted a family. Anwen couldn't bring herself to submit to such. He sought the slight glimmer of hope that resided in having a child, the semblance of normalcy that it would have given the both of them; however, Anwen couldn't bear the thought of rearing a child only to watch them parish in the days to come. No future was set in stone, she knew that better than most, but Solas vow to return the elven people to their former glory…felt preordained, if not by him than another elven mage. Cullen moved his hands to the wetness between her legs and soon plunged his finger deep inside her to ready for. A shudder once again rippled through, but this one of something other than guilt. Anwen loved Cullen dearly, that much was undeniable, she meant every word of the vows she'd spoken during their time at the Winter Palace; the secrecy of the ceremony, the two of them pledging their love and lives to one another, and Cullen's desperately craving for the words to represent more than the simplicity of uttering them.

Anwen's body moved his fingers, a rhythm that quickened and slowed with her each and every breath, preventing her from reaching the edge of the precipice too quickly in their love making. He throbbed with longing and moaned with sweet delight as her wetness increased. They made their way to the bed, disturbing the mabari that rest there, and continued to explore and taste each other's bodies before their desire could no longer be denied. He thrust himself inside her, crying out her name, and moved with the swiftness and ferocity of a lion, as to be expected by the ex-Commander. Cullen pleaded with his eyes, the yearning for a child melting his once hard golden eyes as he peered down at her. Before the talk of family and children, their love making had been much like their efforts on the battle field; however, as of late there was an undeniable softness in everything he did which contributed further to the guilt that weighed heavily on her conscious.

The wind howled outside, a snow storm brew just behind the comfort and security of their doors. Faintly, even amongst Cullen's moans and grunts, she could hear the distinct sound of wolves calling out in the distance.

On the morrow the morning sun dimly lit the ash-grey sky making everything visible appear empty against the bleached contrast of the snow. Everything felt so …empty and blank. Anwen was certain that this winter, the falling snow, and the harshness of the cold were all signs. Letters arrived on the bitter morning wind; one a large black crow with wings tipped in blood red, and the smaller with a silver ribbon tied along its talon, carried them along their necks to the open window of the kitchen. Cullen had been absent to their arrival, he'd departed sometime before she'd awaken on his chestnut gelding for reasons unknown to her, but he appeared not too much later after the arrival of the letters. Upon seeing the birds, one perched on Anwen's shoulder and the other standing on the window ledge eating corn from her hand, he scowled.

"Bad news?"

Anwen nodded unsure of exactly where to start. Both letters contained similar information pertaining to the elves of Thedas. "One is from our favorite spymaster and the other from my sister, Marren." She said slowly. The crow that arrived with Marren's letter hobbled around on the window seal, grooming its feathers with its crooked beak. It tucked its head inside the pocket of its right wing, creating a barrier between it and the chilled wind. Anwen watched it thoughtfully as Cullen stomped the snow from his boots and shed wool cloak and rough-spun gloves.

"Your sister? It's been a while since we've heard from her." Cullen started, walking toward her. "A year, at the most, and that was after your keeper, um, what was her name? Istimaethoriel, right? Informed us about the disappearance of a handful of elves, your sister being one of them."

He kissed her lightly on the cheek, his icy lips barely grazing her skin, and then strode to the oak table to sit. "Yes, Marren has apparently joined up with some group that has donned the name _The Forgotten Ones_ , it seems that they have chosen the name based on the myths and lore surrounding the members of the group from our pantheon." She extended her arm to the crow on the window seal allowing it to hop on to the length of her forearm. Both birds resided next to each other as she walked with deliberate slowness, considering the information she'd read with each step, and placed them within the cage near the far end of the kitchen. " _The Forgotten Ones_ were a group of god-like elves, many of whose names were lost to time, that represented the darker aspects of old elven culture and their place during the time of Elvhenan has often been disputed seeing as how our benevolent gods, the Creators, ruled."

Cullen's face twisted into a mask of uncertainty. Even though they had been married three years, Cullen had yet to learn everything there is to know about elven culture. To be fair Anwen hardly knew anything of human customs, she'd learned a bit over the last few years, and of course through her encounters with humans long before she even became the Inquisitor. After the reveal of Solas's betrayal and his involvement with the downfall of the elves, Cullen's confusion was understandable, she hardly understood most of it herself and she'd heard the truth straight from the source. Goose pimples prickled her flesh at the thought of Solas. Was this new group somehow agents of his will? It was hard to say. Over the last few years and even after the truth revealed itself from the depths of the muddled past, elves had been rebelling from all across the world. Reports of such flooded every single connection and network she acquired through the means of the inquisition and even Leliana had continued to keep her ear to the ground concerning the matter.

"And what of Leliana?" he asked wearily, the exasperation thick on his lips. "What does she have to say on the matter? Do any of her agents have anything different to report?"

 _He grows tired of hearing about Solas_ , she thought sadly. _We all sit idly on our hands while Solas hides away plotting the end of our existence, and yet Cullen would rather enjoy today rather than the morrow._ "Her suspicious reflect similar movements among the elves…although I am somewhat surprised she has discovered as much as she has." She turned to him, her lambswool robe swooshing behind her, "It is not unlike Solas to toy with information. To allow his agents to reveal only what he desires."

Cullen's golden lion eyes bore into her, sadness, frustration, and fiery ire glowing brightly hungry for closure on the matter. The mabari padded into the kitchen, a slight happy lope in his steps as he made his way to Cullen's side. The war-hound never truly left the commander's side, thick and thieves they were, and only bound together by the homeland they shared along with their trait of resilience. Cullen scratched the dog behind his ears and the mabari relaxed into his hand. The beast, a mound of muscle, unclenched the rocks of tension that his body consisted of, and melted into jelly at the reassurance of Cullen's hand. Anwen watched the two enviously and found herself oddly out of place. Even with their marriage and their connection to one another, she never fully felt whole with Cullen, at least not in the same manner that he did with the mabari. The dog whimpered affectionately and rolled over on his back to allow Cullen access to his soft underbelly.

"Perhaps we should visit Mia sometime soon?" Anwen proposed suddenly, "To take our minds off of such things. A clear mind might help us with devising our next course of action."

Whatever anguish gripped vanished at the sound of his sister's name, he smiled at the thought, it clearly pleasing him to take some time to visit her. After they eloped the couple had only visited her once, in fact Anwen had only met Cullen's siblings all of once, and the introduction of her to Branson and Rosalie had been abrupt and brief, and perhaps that was due to them needing time to recover from…the last few years. He appreciated the distraction more so than he would ever admit to her, he adored his siblings, especially Mia, even if she was rather pushy for Anwen's taste; however, she cared deeply for her sister-in-law and regarded her as family much like her own blood.

"That sounds like a great idea, although she may ask about whether or not she has a niece or a nephew on the way." He chuckled softly, a weary sadness lingering in the laughter. "I would have liked to tell her we were expecting by now, if nothing else but to ease her persistent questions."

Anwen went to him, a soft sad smile of her own on her lips. "Yes, it's unfortunate that we will have to disappoint her."

 **Cullen: ex-commander –**

"Maker's Breath, Mia…" Cullen sighed wearily, slouching into the arm chair near the brazier. "Annie and I shall have children in due time…could we please talk of something else."

The last few years had been well to Mia, she'd married well and had become a wife of a wealthy lord in Ferelden. The spread for their arrival had been…immense to say the least. Peppered boar, mutton chops, savory duck saturated in gravy, thick and creamy beef and barley stew with thick cuts of potatoes, steamed beets and sweet onions. There were even berries with sweet cold crème, honeycakes drenched with berry sauce; there was also baked apples and flagons of spiced crimson wine and the sickly sweet red wine of Orlais. It had all been far too much for him, he could not stomach so much food in one sitting even if he tried. Cullen watched Anwen from across the table, her face an utter mask of indifference, as she sat listening hearing everything and yet a part of nothing. Her arm moved subtly under the table, a movement that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else other than him. His marbari was at her side, sensing her discomfort with the turn of the conversation, and sat loyally by her side allowing her to scratch at his ears.

The musicians played compassionately and lively, full of such an exuberance that it seemed misplaced considering the turn the atmosphere had taken. Harp, fiddles, and horns all joined in unison in the great hall, echoing warmth and happiness of the walls in such a manner that one could forget that it was winter. He looked at all the unfamiliar faces that surrounded his sister, her husband, and his love, and it was unsettling to see how naïve they all were to the troubles that lie ahead. He might have cried at the thought, sad and lost in his own head, Solas was the cause of this illusion, and he would pay the price dearly if Cullen had anything to say about it. He knew he couldn't, his heart would remain true and strong, if not for himself than for those he loved, he would cherish these moments for as long as the lasted regardless of the impending doom that loomed over the world.

"Cullen? Cullen?" Mia called, from her seat at the center of the long table. "Honestly, you haven't changed from when you were a boy. Never could pay attention and always needing me to remind you things and to look after you." She delicately pressed a spoon to her lips and sipped gingerly at the stew. _Always the lady_ , he thought almost sourly, even when she was prying into his personal life she always remembered her curtsies. "Which is why I think a son or a daughter will help focus your attention on matters other than that of battles, wars, and demons."

Her husband laughed heartily, throwing back his head in one rapid movement, and clutching his belly to stifle the quakes that erupted from the thunderous sound. Lord Edvard Stevon was a minor lordling with ties to Nevarra and Antiva both through blood and social connections. Cullen, however, wasn't impressed by the status and extravagance of his brother-in-law's wealth; nevertheless he was happy for his sister and glad that she had someone else to fuss over and preoccupy herself with. He was gallant and charismatic, like the tales of old when heroes such as the Grey Wardens flew in to strike a deadly blow against the blight on the backs of griffons. Hair dark as ebony with watery blue eyes he stood a head taller than Cullen, but was much rounder and portly due to the luxury of his lifestyle; unlike Cullen who maintained the strapping muscles of youth of twenty, his sister's lord husband love his food as much as he did Anwen.

"Ah, come now love, leave your poor brother be. " Edvard interjected, the amusement thick like honey in his voice. "I am sure Anwen will give him plenty of children. Strong and healthy boys, beyond a doubt. Yes, yes. Give them time. An heir will surely come on with the blooming of spring, but I'm sure that Anwen wants a daughter, much like her. Ah yes, a woman's dream." He glanced at Anwen who was looking down at her stew, lost in thought.

Cullen watched his wife, who looked somehow smaller and more vulnerable than she did before, like a child fearful of their parent's ire. She once stood so proud and strong, full of confidence and life, and now that life that once burned inside her like the blazing summer sun seemed snuffed out, as if nothing more than a mere candle flame. A serving girl crossed the room to the table refilling their flagons with hot mead in place of the spice crimson wine. Mia quickly shooed her away with the wave of her hand and refocused her attention back on Cullen. "I have taken it as a great offense, Cullen. The matter of me having nieces and nephews – a large family – is something I take to heart." She said peering at him with a fiery determination.

"Mia!" Cullen shouted, slamming his hands down on the table as he stood abruptly sending the chair shuttling backwards across the stone floor. "Enough with the prying, this is a matter for Anwen and I. I would hope by now you would understand at least that."

The room fell silent at the outburst. He didn't understand himself why he reacted so rash, perhaps it was the hum of lyrium still lingering within his brain and blood. Singing sweet temptations to him like the whispers of an insistent lover. Until now he had never given it much thought, he often ignored the ache altogether, it wasn't until that letter arrived regarding Solas that the cravings returned. Anwen was beside him then, her hand on his shoulder, soft and light like a kiss, ebbing his fury. The servant girl returned then, her eyes grim with the darkness of the mood. She regarded her mistress nervously as if her own sudden movements would cause another incident. Within her possession she held a letter, it was but a small scrap of parchment, but was sealed in wax. She bowed politely, excusing herself for the disruption, and handed the letter over to Cullen, who did not comprehend why she was doing so. As far as he knew no one had been informed of his and Anwen's decision to visit Mia, but he knew who the letter was from after he inspected the wax seal further: an insignia of a blood red raven with outstretched wings. _Leliana_ , he thought uneasily dread spreading through him like the taint of the blight, _something was wrong_.

The dread he initially felt continued to spread, clutching his heart and lungs icy grip, and a sense of loneliness and despair slithered along within its wake. He looked to Anwen, whose face still revealed nothing, knew what the letter contained long before he did, she'd always known somehow. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his hands shaking with fear, and as his eyes skimmed across the parchment his deepest fears were confirmed.

The Dread wolf had been sighted.


	2. Cassandra & Anwen

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, it all belongs to Bioware.

 **Cassandra: Seeker of Truth –**

The murky green water of the river churned frothy white as the chilled icy air ushered the flow downhill. Steel scraped against steel as swords clashed and the clattering sound of iron shields rang throughout the water's edge. The recruits for the new Order of Seekers trained relentlessly working past midnight and even well into the morning and not stopping to break their fast. Cassandra watched them all, her eyes scrutinizing every jab, thrust, slash, and advance, they took in the practice yard that resided a mere twenty or so yards from the river. Much had been done to repair the damage to the order after the rise and fall of Corypheus, a great deal remained; however great strides had been taken to ensure past mistakes wouldn't repeat themselves. She stepped closer to the massive pyre to fight against the cold night air on her bare skin. The fire cracked merrily beside her, sizzling and popping in the crisp wind as the flames licked across the dry wood, it burned fiercely, quickly consuming the jagged logs so much so that the glow shone bright like the sun.

She averted her eyes from the recruits and on to the flames. Fire possesses many purposes, to provide warmth, to light one's path in darkness, and even to destroy. The Chantry believed, however, that fire could cleanse an individual of all sins and wrongdoings, perhaps that was why the Chant of Light preached profusely about the dualistic nature of fire. She had once seen the green flames of the fade slither across the sky where the breach had torn the heavens apart. As if the entrails from the belly of the Maker himself, the eerie green blazed a trail all throughout Thedas leaving nothing but rifts and destruction in their wake. Upon reforming the Order all donned the sigil of the all seeing-eye of truth; however, instead of residing within the core of sun, it was now immersed within a blazing flame. They represented two vital aspects of the reformed Seekers: redemption and truth.

"Cleanse your mind of all matters and place your faith in your cause," She called out. "Strike true when your cause is just, for it is justice that we truly seek. Justice is the only truth."

"Yes, lady Seeker!" they cried in unison, their strength of their voices causing her soul to tremble.

The last few years had restored much of her faith within the loyalties of man-kind and the sense of honor that could be instilled within them, if given the chance and the proper guidance. After all this time, high in the Hunterhorn Mountains it seemed that the slow dismal process of restoration could be all lost at any time and any day. The warm gleam of the fires light bloomed over her dull breast-plate causing it to shimmer like rubies in the darkness. The plate, a lusterless iron that had been chipped, dented, and battered from numerous repetitive hours of exercise. The wind picked up then, blowing more briskly than it had been this evening, it swirled and twirled around the pyre causing the streams of flames to shutter. There would be a new layer of frost come morning, this she knew, and the recruits would be stiff and frost bitten with the bitter cold.

Cassandra fed fresh wood into the fire and drew closer toward it, extending her hands outward as if to grab the flames themselves, then she flexed her fingers which had grown rigid and achy with cold. She watched as a few newly reformed Templars fawn out across their established camp, tense and sore, they took up their stations along the perimeter the torches they held flickering in a line as if flaming nymph dancing in the moonless night.

A sound rose then, deep in the depths of the black forest: the howling of a wolf. Its call, a lone and sad song, rang out loud and melodic against the clashing of metal and the grunts of men. Too distant to follow or find; however, the rise and fall of the song, as if a familiar tone of voice, reminded her of queerly the one who betrayed them all. She looked to the east of the encampment, hearing the voice of her second in command, Ser Rowan, a tall gallant man of five-and-thirty who looked no more than a half-grown boy because of the youth etched in his features; she could faintly overhear what was being said, something regarding equipment or perhaps swords and breastplates, she couldn't quite make-out the conversation in its entirety. _How strange_ , she thought turning her gaze once more to the flames, _not but four years ago he was a Templar, loyal and fierce, dedicated to misguided cause and now…_

She removed the letter from the folds of her defenders coat. The letter, the dreaded letter that had been nothing more than a few sentences scrawled quickly on a scrap of parchment, she somehow couldn't come to terms with or was too frightened to. Peace was near at hand, so close that she could feel it stirring in the air, swirling in the winds carrying on the currents something that she had not seen for nigh on two years. She pulled her fingers away still reluctant to accept the reality.

A gift such as peace was seldom achieved or earned through peaceful actions, but refraining from action, peaceful or no…that meant with almost an undeniable certainty chaos would ensue. How easy it was to allow a purpose or calling to lead you astray, to cause you to question not simply the justifications but also the person you'd become pursuing it. How perverted the world had become after falling from the Maker's light. Ser Rowan, the Seekers of Truth, the Templars of old, Divine Victoria…all guided by separate forces of nature that she herself couldn't begin to comprehend. Cassandra allowed herself to be driven by the desire to correct the wrongdoings of Seekers, to correct the misdeeds established by those who came before her.

"Lady Seeker Cassandra!" A shrill, gasping voice called out over the cracking blaze of the pyre. "I have a message for you, directly from the Inquisitor and the Commander. It's here. They sent their own personal raven straight from Ferelden." The messenger, Mithra, managed in-between gasps waving the letter in front of her face. Mithra attended to Cassandra personally, grudgingly of course for she felt it unnecessary; however the spritely elf procured herself a substantial amount of esteem with Anwen, and had proven to be as superb with a bow as Cassandra was with a sword and shield – and all self-taught. The pale blonde haired-elf's hair shimmered like molten silver in the glow of the flame and it reminded Cassandra of the stars, twinkling pale lights, stark white, a bright contrast against the ink of the night sky. Her position here, amongst the Seekers, felt oddly similar to that comparison. There were no elves with the ranks, Mithra was the sole exception, which was the initial reasoning behind her objection to joining their cause.

"From the Inquisitor?" she asked, perplexed at suddenly hearing from her long lost friend. "That is rather…odd." The timing of both letters was no coincidence, while in later years she'd stumbled in her devotion to the Maker, she remained loyal to his words and true to the belief that she nevertheless was a woman of faith. Was this a part of the Maker's grand plan? What enigmatic machinations could he be unfolding now? Hadn't the world suffered enough after Corypheus and had the Maker's most loyal followers not proven themselves worthy of life?

Mithra handed him the letter. "I have continued to routinely update the Inquisitor on all progress. Our letters, while rather informal, retain mostly information about the movement of the rouge elves and that of possible sighting of her sister and the dread wolf."

"And what have the reports been, exactly?" Cassandra inquired skimming the letter. "Has there been word of Solas or contact between one of our own and any of the elves?" A growing sense of anxiety took root in her belly, twisting and churning, as if a writhing nest of snakes snapping and hissing at one another. The winds changed then, swirling and twirling East with such a loud rumble of a howl that it sound a pack of wolves had suddenly joined in song. The calls reverberated through the hollowness of the frozen forest with nothing to accompany the sounds but the low mummers from the encampment.

A scattered group of young Seekers moved near the burning pyre; which continued to burn and flare dazzlingly in the darkness of the night, blazing brightly like a fallen star, and huddled close together to drink and break bread. While the newly formed Seekers still did not possess enough influence to procure the finest or more delicate of meats and cheese, through the remaining underground channels of the Inquisition Cassandra managed to reach out to an old acquaintance about providing goods for the organization. She looked to them, thoughtfully, seeing the relief on their chapped and chilled faces. They were thankful for the heat, not just of the fire but of one each other, they were all bonded by a brotherhood and shared in each other's glory as well as their failures. There was a comfort in that, it need not matter that it wasn't tangible; however, she was sure that the spiced wine aided with soothing their stiff bodies. She realized then that somehow, even with all the failures of the Seekers and of the Chantry, and even the Templars, the reformation had created some good – a sense of family. The small group whispered on, sharing stories, giggling and Cassandra watched as their words mingled together in a thick steam in the cold air.

"Mithra, walk with me, please." Cassandra asked, folding the letter and tucking it away. "Let us go where others may not hear us." _Be cautious_ , she reminded herself, _always be mindful of those nearby_. They walked on, north away from the Seeker training camp at the base of the Hunterhorn Mountains. Two stumbled through the night, their fur-lined boots catching on gnarled and knotted lichen covered blackened roots that were obscured by powdery snow, prolonging the ascent up the coiled mountain path. When initially claiming Hunterhorn Cassandra took all the precautions she could to ensure the safety of her recruits was placed above all else. Oil lanterns dotted trees a yard off from the trail; what once burned brightly to light the way, now flickered faintly in the dimness as if fearful of the cold itself. The ghostly hands of the winter wind tugged at her cloak as they pressed on, side by side, barring down against the gust. "How has the Inquisitor been? Is she alright? It has been too long since we last spoke, I feared that something happened. I assume Cullen would have informed me if something had indeed happen, though I suppose the Commander himself has…difficulty sharing his burdens."

The elf rubbed her hands together and breathed into them, thin snake tails of steam hissed out between her long fingers, then flexed and closed them as they began to stiffen with a cold dulling ache. "The Inquisitor is as she always has been…" Mithra said curtly, tone flat and aloof. She kept her gaze on the trail, her eyes never meeting Cassandra's.

Cassandra stopped then to face elf. "Is there something you're not telling me, Mithra?" she asked, her breath frosting with every word.

There was a long pause before Mithra responded, her face drawn and forlorn. She seemed hesitant to say much of anything as if the great reveal would somehow betray a grand secret that she knew she need not share. "Perhaps…Anwen, err…what I mean the Inquisitor is in need of more _guidance_ than she may have originally expressed."

Fluffy tuffs of fresh snow swirled down slowly under the blanket of wintry haze as they pressed on up the sloped ice-covered dirt path, stumbling and fumbling to the crest where the stronghold resided, the question lingering unforgettably between them. Cassandra was cold and weary. As the stronghold finally appeared through the haze of the frozen air; a construct of stone and hard cedar and red oak, that held no more comforts or beauties than that of the Hunterhorn's forest. She briefly glanced over her shoulder, peering down the path of the cliff side, faintly she could see the flicker of the pyre still burning brilliantly in the night as if it were Andraste herself reminding them of their cause.

The keep rested on a jutted sharply slanted ridge of earth, in the starkness of the snow the pointed rocks resembled the claws and teeth of demons, and there were rumors that once a spring existed within the core of the mountain and was warmed by blessing of the Maker himself. The stones of the keep radiated heat like the steam of hot breath in the cool winter breeze. The door was slick to the touch, the heat from within forcing sweaty condensation through the pores of the planked wooden door. The chatter from within flowed from within the halls, much like the sweltering heat, a clear indication the oldest of the Templars of the old order, now considered the seniors of the newly reformed Seekers of Truth, had called an Elder's council while Cassandra managed the troops at the bottom of the mountain.

Mithra tucked a few strands of her choppy hair behind a pointed ear, a sign of her anxiety of being in an enclosed space, and stood to the side to allow Cassandra to pass her. Her wariness seemed appropriate, it was not like the Elders of the Order to call a gathering without notifying her first, if nothing else that alone would be enough to bring her pause. The brashness of her thoughts overwhelmed her and she quickly silenced them. Cassandra had told herself after the Breach and the Exalted Council that she would manage her anger better; however, there was a lingering sick sad feeling in the pit of her stomach, writhing like worm through her bowels. They walked through the stone hall, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the echoing sound of rising voices the closer they drew to the council room. Mithra need not follow her, she knew, but she dared not turn the elf away. Cassandra was concerned about the news regarding her friend. It had been quite some time since they'd spoken, and from the letter she received she couldn't determine whether to be afraid or brave.

"Mithra, you said that the Inquisitor needed more guidance." Cassandra started slowly, "What did you mean by that?"

Mithra paused, deliberating over what to say, or perhaps collecting her thoughts enough to determine what to say first, Cassandra honestly could not say. "The Inquisitor, the Lady Anwen…she is lost, or torn perhaps, between honor and duty and the love of her people."

The brilliant glow of the candelabra candles brighten the dim room. The wax, a deep dark crimson, dripped down the glistening bronze as if oozing blood from a fresh wound. Four Templars stood around an oval worn table, their armor shimmering like the spark of flints in the night, with mead, hard bread, and cheese on plate before their hands. Delrin Barris stood in the center, his mailed hands splayed across the chipped table and underneath them several pieces of parchment as well as a heavily marked map. Though he may not possess the experience of some of the older Templars, he had proven himself to the Inquisitor during the time of the Breach, and under her authority promoted him to Knight-Commander. Though several years had passed since the defeat of Corypheus and even more still since the Exalted Council, yet Cassandra felt no need to strip him of his title, he had proven himself in the eyes of the Maker as well as to the people of Thedas.

"Lady Seeker Cassandra!" they said in unison, standing at attention for their superior and ceasing their activity. She nodded her head in acknowledgment of her status and allowed them to continue. They watched her hesitantly for a moment before continuing with their discussions. Cassandra drew Mithra aside near a sweating column in the far end of the room, she peered down into the elf's eyes and received nothing back but a queer pooled stare.

"What _are_ you telling me?" Cassandra asked in hushed whispers, "is the Inquisitor-is _Anwen_ planning on joining these…" she hesitated on the last word, Mithra too was an elf, and she too understandably would be divided between duty to her position and the love of her race, but Cassandra restrained herself and never allowed the word to pass her lips. Was honor of her word what kept her bound to human endeavors? Or her moral sense of justness that kept her here? Cassandra herself was mystified, and she realized then it was not for her to question. "…agents of Solas' will. For she must know that he pulls their strings to carry out his selfish agenda rather than for the greater good of the elven people. She can't possibly believe that after all this time he was somehow….right."

"I cannot speak to her beliefs or of what scary truths lie dormant in her heart…" Mithra said, her eyes shifting between Cassandra and the conversing Templars, once assured that showed no interest in her she leaned in to whisper, "And if it is not too bold of me to say to the Lady Seeker, while the Inquisitor did save all of Thedas, she remains ever faithful to her origins. She is not human, you must remember that."

 _Wise and queer words from someone so young,_ Cassandra thought stepping back from the elf and back into the yellow-reddish glow of the light.

"Lady Seeker, we have news." Knight-Commander Delrin said, a hush suddenly falling over the room. "Knight-Templar ser Derrick was the one who stumbled upon this information. He is the one who sent word to me, and quickly acted after doing such. His actions are commendable and have my full support. For it is a Templar's responsibility to act in favor of the laws asserted by the Order."

"Enough with the pandering, Knight-Commander, now, tell me of your news." The Lady Seeker commanded, her ire steadily rising.

"Yes Lady Seeker," he said, saluting and bowing to her rank. "A few of our scouts have captured the exiled Briala and have acquired sensitive information regarding the one who threatens the world."

It was then that terror closed a tight hand around her throat, squeezing tighter and tighter with each second that passed. Cassandra felt her breath catch in her chest, her lungs far too weak, too stunned, to allow her to inhale, to gasp, and whatever mists of air that remained within her quivered and burst aflame within her. There was a chance she misheard the name, it had been sometime since the name had been spoken, during the time of the Civil War and the events that conspired at the Winter Palace. _No_ , she was certain she misheard, _no, no, no, it can't possibly be true_. Empress Celene banished both Briala and her hoard of elven spies from Orlais due to her inability to reconcile with the part the city elf, and past lover, played in igniting the Civil War.

"If we can indeed confirm this information, though I trust Briala as far as I can throw her, then far more troubling times are ahead than we first anticipated. Maker guide us."

 **Anwen: ex-Inquisitor –**

Anwen had drafted and sent the letters nigh on seven moons ago. The birds returned not long after disappointedly carrying nothing but ruffled feathers and fleas. It was unlike Cassandra, or even the scout Mithra, to send no word back after hearing from her. There was a small chance the letters were lost on the winds during a gust, or even stolen, but the birds had been trained by Leliana herself, and Anwen trusted her faithful spymaster capabilities far more than most. The birds had been kept, at her sister-in-law's assistance in the nooks that resided in the stables. While the birds themselves didn't seemed to mind the freedom and fresh air, for they were used to the restrictive nature of iron bars and warped cages, Anwen, however, felt unsettled by this. Having them close at arms brought her a mysterious comfort since the disbandment of the Inquisition, and perhaps that had more to do with the individual who watched them more so than the animals themselves, but nevertheless seeing them put her mind at ease.

As of late Cullen had kept a close eye on her, watching her attentively as if a mother hen, fearful himself of letting her out of his sight. They remained with Mia and her lordling husband, fostering themselves in northern end of the estate, in one of many of the extravagant guest chambers that existed within their lavish home. It was a queer dynamic the four of them walking the grounds of the estate, Mia and her husband happily settled into marriage and the life built upon that foundation, and then she and Cullen two weary soldiers of a long forgotten war masquerading in a life where they didn't belong. While Cullen's own demons still plagued the depths of his heart and mind; he refused, however, to allow his anguish to influence that of his sister and her life, regardless if he was forcing himself or not. He speaks _with her so gently, yet there is so much torment and anger underneath_. _It grips his words, like a hand about his throat, restraining him,_ Anwen thought as she watched her husband with his older sister, playing chess and laughing as if they were children again. She envied them greatly, for they shared something in their bond that elves and their families weren't allowed living in a world that belonged to humans. The anger he hid, while fueled by the remnants of long dead demons, and the lingering singe of lyrium that stained his mind and haunted his dreams, it was truly focused on Solas.

The night the letter arrived regarding the Dread Wolf, regarding Solas…she felt a sudden shift within Cullen. While she, a fairly talented mage, could have used her magic to determine his inner thoughts and even place his mind at ease, she'd given up the craft and no longer practiced except to carry out mundane tasks. Her connection to magic reminded her too much of the pain she'd suffered, that Thedas had suffered, and like Cullen she sought remove her dependency on the unreliable and untamable natural phenomenon. Manipulations of such natural forces bothered her more so now than they ever had before, the politics regarding magic she'd always been aware of even when she came into her magic; however, now, the worry was not with what the Chantry deemed appropriate or mages seeking equal rights as citizens, but instead with suffering the touch of magic seemed to cause.

On their second night a servant visited their bedchamber to feed logs into the stone hearth. The flames engulfed them, licking across the logs like a flickering tongue, quickly filling the room with a suffocating sodding heat. Anwen and her husband laid side by side on the extravagant goose down featherbed with corner posts carved in the likeness of a pair mabaris. Twins on all four posts, the pack watched them through the thin crimson and yellow draperies, their polished fierce eyes unfaltering in their determination. Their bodies separated from one another by small clothes and all the words they'd left unsaid since the unsettling news. She had excused herself from dinner early that evening and left her family musing of brighter, easier days before the Breach, before the Blight, with the warm comfort of spiced honey wine to assist in the nostalgia. Cullen followed not long after, his cheeks flushed with wine, and his wide molten lion eyes shimmering pure liquid gold. Anwen had already undressed and crawled into bed, slipping between the heavy blankets with nothing but the cool cloth of the sheets to greet her; he did the same, leaving on only a cotton tunic to maintain a sense decorum and respect for his older sister's home.

He nuzzled into her neck, nosing aside the hair from the nape of her neck, and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her into the mold of his own body. "Annie," he whispered, his slurred voice thick and sweet with the scent of honey, "Annie…let us try for a son. I've thought of little else since we wed. I want to leave something beautiful behind in this world, with all its ugliness and corruption…" he inhaled deeply, and sighed, "and with everything that's happened, I feel a great deal of certainty with this decision. I know we have tried often enough for you to be with child but…"

The brilliant stars of the eastern sky flourished in the ink of the night and by the time the moon woke, robbing the stars of their shimmering glory, Cullen was snoring beside her. Anwen dared not sleep, for in her dreams, in the milky haze of her truest thoughts and feelings _He_ waited for her. She vowed not to mention these dreams to Cullen, because she knew doing so would break him more so than being together already had, and her commander had suffered enough in their relationship.

It was then, on the coolness of the evening winds, that the fever took her. Her stump of an arm ached and burned, the pain seizing her from inside out, it raging so massively that she felt small and weak, like nothing more than a newborn whimpering babe. She retched everything that was fed to her, her body refusing to keep anything down, and when she slept she often cried out screaming curses about the Veil, spirts and demons, and thirsty blood red eyes watching her from a shroud of darkness. Cullen remained at her side, tending to her with soft, gentle hands. On the fourth day, when both he and Mia hovered over her; she pressing a damp cloth to Anwen's forehead to ease the fever, and Cullen holding her hand hoping the comfort would ease her pain, she had a vision. A monstrous wolf, with shimmering fur of ebony, stepped out from the darkness. He walked toward her, the sound of his padded footfall echoing like the patter of rain on cobbled stone, but it was not his size that kept her frozen with fear instead it was the gleam of his terrifying smile. She stood before him dwarfed by his immenseness, but Anwen wasn't as she currently was, no, but instead as how she was during the time of the Breach; with two arms, two hands, and the rippling pain of the anchor slitting, ripping, and tearing skin on her palm, grasping both ends of the mark inch by inch.

" _Come now, vhenan. You can't spend all your time dreaming._ " The voice resonated deep within him, a low rough rumble. " _The Veil is thinning, can you feel it? The tingling on your skin. The anchor can. It responds to it, pulsing and throbbing like that of a heartbeat_." He stood before her, commanding her full attention, altering the very air the swirled between them. They were only a mere yard from one another and he, with all his greatness and size, could easily shorten the distance in a few meager strides. He licked his chops, a dark greyish-pink tongue rolling over his muzzle in long lazy flicks, before revealing another wolfish fanged smile. " _Don't be frightened my love, my plan is near complete. And I would not have you and yours suffer as I erect the world that once was_."

The ridge of fur along his back bristled and hardened to sharp barbs, prickling down the long line of his spine as if blacken daggers. "Where are you?" Anwen asked. "Tell me where you are instead of torturing me in dreams."

He laughed, a deep earth-shattering growl of a laugh, which forced her to cover her ears and cringed in pain. "Torture? No. I would not intentionally cause you unnecessary harm, _vhenan_." The Dread Wolf said, tail stiff with tension. " _Despite my appearance I am no monster. Even you must know that deep down and while my intentions are indeed drastic, they are necessary to rectify the grave mistakes I committed_." He paused, taking a moment to collect himself, pulling his body to full composure and once more hiding behind the cool façade she'd come to know…and even love.

"Why must you carry out this mission alone?" She whispered, clutching her hand at the wrist. "The elves may not be what they once were, but you could – we could teach them and show them a better way. Set them down the path the elves were meant to walk."

He looked down at her, his ears pressed flat against his head and reared back the corner of his immense mouth and growled. For a moment sheer terror flickered across his eyes, and it was then that Anwen thought he might change his mind, that he might regret his actions….regret leaving her and actually fear the consequences of this path. She extended her hand to him, seeking his love and comfort once more, and from the corner of her eye she caught the a faint twinkle of light from the gold wedding band around her finger. This was nothing more than a dream, like the fade, a mere fraction of reality, a glimmering glassy mirror image filled with illusions and false hopes. She retreated once more, baring her pain alone, and drawing some power from within herself to overcome the earthshattering pain of losing him once more.

" _Vhenan, you know me far better than that. It's far too late to alter the course. And now, we are unfortunately out of time – the both of us."_

It was then, in one swift movement, he leaned forward and opened his great mouth and sighed.

On the sixth day Cullen sought out a healer. Anwen's body had begun to wither away. Her heart shaped face was now replaced with gaunt sharp lines and hollowed cheeks, and her once lean body was now nothing more than withering shell. Cullen gripped her hand tightly, interlocking her fingers with his own, as he begged the Maker to heal his beloved. He'd asked for nothing else from him in his prays since the sickness took her. The healer, an elder mage of the nearby circle, with blond hair so pale it looked silver, and watery blue eyes that wavered each time her magic ceased to improve Anwen's condition. "This sickness is beyond my expertise…" the healer sighed, sinking into the wooden chair beside the bed. "While it could be the work of blood magic, very strong blood magic, it is like nothing I've ever seen before. Whomever caused this, or whatever ever caused this must also undo it."

Cullen nodded solemnly his thought utterly grief stricken at the loss of his wife. He felt the fever growing warmer with each passing day. Her arm frantically clawed at the phantom arm where the anchor's mark once was. Underneath the tightly wrapped rough-spun bandages that hid flesh scorched by ancient magic, a familiar chilling green glow flickered to life. The air grew still and everyone's breathing seemed to cease at the growing light. A shrill ear-splitting scream broke the silence and spewed from Anwen's lips uncontrollably. She thrashed around violently, her body possessed with unnatural forces, as bouts of seizures rippling through her body. Cullen gazed on, the agony etched in his wife's features destroying him from the inside out: starting with his heart. It frightened him. He stood and moved away from Anwen. "Healer, what's happening to her?"

"I know not of what is happening, this magic is as foreign to me as the illness itself." The healer whispered, her hands trembling at her side. "That eerie glow, reminiscent of the luminosity of the fade. My fears were correct in think that this was no mundane magic, but something much stronger, and sinister. Ancient and powerful and rooted deeply within her."

Mia called for the servants to close the shutters, draw the curtains, and dismissed half of the staff for the remainder of the evening. Boiling water was brought from the lower kitchen, the pitch black kettle radiated heat in such massive waves that the room seemed to smolder like festering embers. The healer deemed that the bandages be removed, that the site of the infection must begin with Anwen's arm. A servant was asked to fetch a dagger, and with a few careful and hesitant strokes the bandages fell away and released a foul odor of putrid, burning flesh. Anwen screamed out once more, her body writhing and twitching as each spasm of pain rolled through her. Her thin, soiled tunic clung to her body, thick and saturated with sweat. Cullen flew to her side, clutching her hand in his own, and kissed her finger tips gently as he muttered sweet words into them.

A brilliant green light erupted from the numb at the base of her elbow. A smoldering green flame sparked from the folded, inflamed skin, and licked up the length of her arm. Cullen leapt backwards, his hand leaving her own as demons of the past seized him. Mia turned away, her face ashen and eyes wet with tears, as she watched in horror. The pulse of pure magic.


End file.
